


linger on

by manbunjon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:12:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: The warmth that rolled off the fire in the old grate made the skin at the base of her neck prickle. The log that she added had been swallowed greedily, keeping the crackling flames alive and the dark chamber exempt from the bitter winter blowing just outside. Any other day she might have relished in the warmth, might have let the skin beneath her linen nightshift draw in the warmth like a breath.But this night, one that an uninformed observer might find as normal as any other, there was no rest in her.





	linger on

The warmth that rolled off the fire in the old grate made the skin at the base of her neck prickle. The log that she added had been swallowed greedily, keeping the crackling flames alive and the dark chamber exempt from the bitter winter blowing just outside. Any other day she might have relished in the warmth, might have let the skin beneath her linen nightshift draw in the warmth like a breath.

But this night, one that an uninformed observer might find as normal as any other, there was no rest in her.

Her skin was puckered by gooseflesh despite the warmth of fire and fur, the arms tucked across her chest doing well to hide the way her nipples had pebbled in the cold air. Her legs had begun to ache from so long without moving, the rigid position in which she laying growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

But she dared not move for risk of upsetting the position Jon had taken up beside her, his form supine as he snored softly. His leg had shifted unconsciously in sleep to lay against hers and for as cold as the winter blew outside he was nothing but warm.

Jon had spent so many hours sitting at his writing desk that even in sleep his back bent low and awkward and the weariness etched across his face was so deep not even sleep could cure it. But he had stayed with her. Even when his eyes had burned as though they were filled with sand and he could no longer stifle the drawn out yawns he tried in vain to hide, he stayed.

She had urged him to retire, watching from the corner of her eye as a yawn betrayed him. It had been his turn to read her face, from the dark half moons beneath her heavy, half-lidded eyes to the husky edge to her voice, and knew she had not been sleeping. He had not left her, as he had promised he would not so long ago when they had stood together upon Winterfell’s snow-spotted battlements.

Jon moaned softly in his sleep and Sansa stiffened, afraid even the thoughts of movement has stirred him. He rolled onto his back, his face partially illuminated by the sparse whisper of moonlight that echoed through the frosted glass. In sleep he had bridged the gap between them with unconscious ease, langour bringing him far closer than life ever had.

Sansa’s eyes traced across the crook of his mouth, toward the curve of his nose and the dark shadow of long lashes. Her fingers twitched, aching to draw across his features, as thought to more closely memorise them. She wondered if his beard would be coarse beneath her fingers when compared to the soft curls upon his head. Upon her brow his lips had been faultlessly soft and she wondered absently how they might feel against her own.

Whether it was their lack of familiarity with those who had taken residence in the castle since the sacking of the city or the shared memories of times far kinder, Jon and Sansa often strayed together, the shared days giving way to shared evenings and eventually, shared nights.

Having barely uttered the words Jon was quick to accept the invitation she tendered, inviting he stay the night. He had been so tired that upon standing he had found himself awash with sickness, as though he stood atop a ship in the midst of a churning storm instead of within a solid chamber.

Jon, whose blinks had become suspiciously long during the previous hours, had looked surprised, but he had not declined her offer. Instead he had called for an armchair to be brought from his study and spent the night with his legs propped up on the corner of her writing desk and his head lolling awkwardly to the side.

Even thought he had been quick to accept her initial offer it had taken nearly three days to convince he abandon his armchair in favour of more comfortable accommodations. Jon had finally yielded, whether worn down by her incessant badgering or enticed by the fresh sheets she did not know.

They had lain side by side upon the featherbed as rigid as the wooden headboard above, the chasm between them allowing a draft of uncomfortably cold air between them.

At first only Ghost- having finally been able to vacate his guard post at her door- was able to sleep, curled comfortably upon the furs at their feet. It was not long before Jon followed suit, succumbing to his fatigue and beginning to snore. Only Sansa remained awake.

But she found there was nothing unpleasant about her lack of sleep.

In the stillness of night she was afforded luxuries that were not granted during the day, from the careful study of his tranquil features to the warmth of his body as it pressed against hers. There was no need to rush from one activity to another, as they so often did during the days. Sansa was able to take her time, to truly enjoy the simple pleasures of the time they shared.

It was nearly a week before she, now comfortably with their new arrangement, had once more grown bold. Sansa shifted so that she was facing Jon before moving closer and tentatively laying her head upon his arm.

Feeling him stir Sansa froze, afraid to have breached the line that should not have been approached let alone tested. Jon shifted, lifting his arm so that he could lay it about her shoulders and pull her closer. She could feel the gentle beating of his heart against the ear she lain upon his chest, a melody far more soothing than any minstrel had ever sung.

One hand was pinned beneath her but the other had lain upon his belly, her eyes following as it rose and fell with every intake of his breath. In sleep he seemed so peaceful, the stress and frustration of ruling washed away by sleep. His skin smelled of soap and fresh linens, the feel of his tunic against her cheek soft as silk.

She made no attempt to sleep, content instead to remain at rest beside him, her body seeking his as parching lips sought water.

In the darkness Jon closed the space between them, turning so that his body enveloped her. Her face pressed to the column of his neck, feeling the close shear of his beard not uncomfortable against her brow. He could feel shiver slightly as he stroked the slim length of back and lifted the furs to her shoulders, his lip twitching at the thought of finding her cheeks flushed warm with embarrassment and pleasure.

So many years ago he had never thought to be able to have her this way. Not Eddard Stark’s daughter, the gentile maiden who had always been polite and cordial but nothing more. But seeing her after so many years had brought his feelings rushing back with the swiftness and power of a strike, nearly sending him to his knees as she had come upon her.

Sansa’s nose was icy cold as it nuzzled closer against his neck. She let out a soft sigh, a sound Jon had come to recognise as one of plenary comfort as she fell into sleep each night.

Jon opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not; whether unable or unwilling he did not know. The security and comfort of their intertwined bodies was so complete that words no longer seemed necessary. Instead he just smiled softly and held her closer, allowing himself to fall into sleep more peacefully than he had in years.


End file.
